


One More Drink Then I Swear That I'm Going Home (Truth Is, I Don't Really Have a Place to Go)

by InkgooSupernova



Series: The Winter System [23]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Confusion, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Drunkenness, Escape, HYDRA Trash Party, Hiding, Hydra (Marvel), Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, On the Run, One Shot, Other, Running Away, Short One Shot, Temporary Amnesia, Unreliable Narrator, Vomiting, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:14:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24131155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkgooSupernova/pseuds/InkgooSupernova
Summary: He had successfully taken out the target: male, Caucasian, Blond, late forties. He had not found his team after the hit.So he had to search for his handlers on his own.He could vaguely remember seeing a poster of a man saluting, holding a round shield. The man in the poster had a blue cowl and an outfit that vaguely resembled the United States flag.He blacked out.
Series: The Winter System [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693231
Comments: 4
Kudos: 68





	One More Drink Then I Swear That I'm Going Home (Truth Is, I Don't Really Have a Place to Go)

**Author's Note:**

> This story is pre-series and takes place long before the events of the main series, while Bucky was still a captive of Hydra.
> 
> This story has mentions of wetting and vomiting as well as direct references to alcohol and intoxication and implied abuse.
> 
> Reader Discretion is Advised.
> 
> The title is a line from the song 'Pour Me' by Hollywood Undead.

He wasn't sure how he got there.

The last thing he could remember was being on a mission.

He was in the United States, New York, somewhere.

He was instructed to take out a target, and was left alone by the incompetent STRIKE Team Bravo commander.

He had successfully taken out the target: male, Caucasian, Blond, late forties. He had not found his team after the hit.

So he had to search for his handlers on his own.

He could vaguely remember seeing a poster of a man saluting, holding a round shield. The man in the poster had a blue cowl and an outfit that vaguely resembled the United States flag.

He blacked out.

He found himself in a small town, most likely not in New York anymore since he had seen a sign stating 'Now Leaving New York' a while back. The last sign he could remember seeing was a sign that said 'Welcome to Ohio'.

He must be in Ohio.

How did he end up in Ohio?

Why couldn't he remember how he ended up in Ohio?

What was wrong with him?

The sky was pitch black, a deep contrast to the powder white snow that crunched beneath his boots. He found himself in front of a large building with the letters 'B-A-R' on a neon sign.

He pushed open the door, stepping in from the cold air of the outside world.

There were only two people in the building; an inebriated man who had fallen asleep on the furthest back table, and a woman with short, shaved hair behind the bar. He made his way to the bar, taking a seat on the bar stool furthest from the front door.

"You're a new face 'round here. What can I get ya, stranger?" The woman, who had an accent that did not match the local dialect, according to his vague knowledge, piped up. He couldn't meet her eyes, only looking to the glass bottles behind her.

"...Whiskey. Please." He mumbled, he hadn't realized how badly his throat ached until he began speaking.

He suddenly realized how numb he felt.

"Sure thing, sugar." The woman nodded, gathering the glass bottle from the shelf and preparing him a small glass of the honey-colored liquid. "Here ya are."

He took the glass in his gloved hand, gulping down the drink that burned his misused throat. He shuttered, setting the now empty glass onto the bar top.

"Rough night?" The woman asked, already pouring him another glass.

Was it a rough night?

"...Can't remember..." He sighed, gulping down the next drink as soon as it was within arm's reach.

"That sucks, what's y'er name, sugar?" The woman asked, offering him yet another drink.

Name? Name.

Wait.

Who was he?

_Oh fuck._

He couldn't remember who he was.

"...I don't know..." He mumbled, resting his forehead in his gloved hand, using the other to lift the newest drink to his lips.

"Huh, well, be careful, ya hear?" The woman sighed, pouring him another drink once the latest one was poured down his burning throat.

He couldn't remember how many drinks he had consumed by the time he was thoroughly inebriated, resting his head on the table as distressed tears escaped him. He hiccuped through a few sobs as he wracked his brain for any information to help in his current situation.

He couldn't remember where he was. He couldn't remember how he got there. He couldn't remember where his handlers had gone. He couldn't remember his most recent mission. He couldn't remember his name.

_He couldn't remember who he was._

The woman at the bar had left him alone, eventually not even refilling his glass.

"Alright, pal," The woman's voice shook him from his empty thoughts. "It's closin' time. Ya' don't gotta go home, but'cha can't stay here."

Home? He didn't have a home, did he? Was Hydra his home? Hydra never _felt_ like a home.

What did a home feel like? Did he ever know?

The thought of a scrawny, sickly, bruised and bloodied, blond male flashed through his empty, alcohol-drowned skull. The confusing image dissipated as soon as it appeared.

He stared towards her for a moment, trying to focus on her words, before digging through his pocket for some cash to pay for his drinks.

Wait, he didn't have cash. Hydra never gave him any type of currency.

He sluggishly patted at the various compartments of his uniform, eventually finding his handgun. He unloaded the bullets from the clip onto the counter, and calmly set the gun on the bar top.

"Sell. Payment. Spacibo." Was all he could manage out in his intoxicated state. He managed to slink off of the bar stool and stumble his way out of the bar before the woman could protest his unorthodox method of payment.

He wasn't sure where he was going, or even which direction he was headed in.

He had to prop himself up against a wall with his metal arm in order to steady himself, nearly losing his balance as he tried to make his way through the dark streets of the town.

_He felt so numb._

His skin was buzzing and crawling under his armor as he guided himself across the brick wall at his side. He hadn't noticed the sudden flood of warmth that pressed tight against his groin, flowing down the inside of his left leg.

He pissed himself.

What was _wrong_ with him?

He continued to plod across the snow-cleared sidewalk, stumbling over himself as he tried to focus on the lights ahead of him. They were doubled and far too bright, forcing him to cover his eyes with his arms. That resulted in him losing his balance and falling face first to the cold, piss soaked sidewalk below.

The lights were getting closer.

" _There he is!_ " A familiar voice barked from the lights. He lifted his head, trying to focus on the sight before him.

There was a black van, thick plumes of exhaust puffing from behind the van in the chilled air.

Commander Rumlow and Agent Rollins stepped out of the van.

**Run.**

He tried to lift himself from the ground, attempting to bound into the nearest alleyway on all fours like a rabbit with a rabid dog snapping at its heels.

Why did he need to run?

What was _wrong with him?_

His pitiful attempt at escape in his intoxicated state resulted in an ungraceful tumble across the sidewalk, leaving him with a bleeding abrasion across his right cheek. He was cold and nauseated and wet and tired and _cold_.

He laid still on the cold ground, awaiting his impending doom.

He couldn't even _try_ to fight back as the two men lifted him from the ground.

He couldn't help the sudden expulsion of his stomach content when Agent Rollins slung him over his shoulder like a misbehaving child.

He woke up in the chair, strapped down by his wrists and ankles, the scent of burning hair and ozone the only sensation he could recognize.

"Good morning, Soldier," A technical doctor spoke clearly. "Your indiscretion and blatant betrayal against your home and your team in Hydra has been documented by the director, and you _will_ be punished accordingly." He explained calmly.

His name was Soldier.

He did _bad_.

He couldn't remember _how_ he did bad.

He couldn't remember _why_ he did bad.

He couldn't remember _anything_.

_What was wrong with him?_

**Author's Note:**

> **Translations:**
> 
> Spacibo: Thank you
> 
> This story was inspired by [this post](https://hailhydrabook.tumblr.com/post/144310529601/hailhydrabook-one-escape-attempt-told-via) on tumblr.
> 
> Any behaviors related to DID or Autism Spectrum Neurodivergency within this story are based on **personal experiences** and are not a scientific basis or professional explanation for either DID systems or Autism Spectrum Neurodivergency. No two people, let alone no two systems, are exactly the same.
> 
> Kudos and Comments are always appreciated!


End file.
